Ryoichiro’s apartment building looked like a hundred others, a concrete face pressed flat against the city, forgettable in a way that felt intentional. Inside, his room was much the same. Bare walls. Simple furniture. Nothing that suggested a man who expected his life to change. The place felt temporary, like a waiting room no one ever called your name from.

  The window told a different story. Beyond it, the city stretched wide and alive, all color and motion, as if the world itself were trying to remind him that it still existed somewhere beyond these four walls. The contrast unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

  That afternoon, the sky darkened far too early. Clouds rolled in thick and low, pressing down on the city until it felt like everything underneath them had gone quiet, holding its breath. The first drops of rain tapped against the glass, tentative at first, then steadier, as though testing his patience.

  Ryoichiro did not mind the weather. It suited him. A day like this gave him permission to stay inside, to drink coffee, to let movies play while he pretended everything was still normal. He sank into the couch and reached for the remote.

  That was when he thought he heard a voice.

  It was faint and distant, like someone calling from far down a hallway. He froze, listening. Nothing followed. He glanced out the window. The street below was empty, slick with rain. He told himself it was the wind, or the building settling, or his imagination stretching its legs after too much fear.

  His hand trembled as he poured coffee. A dark splash spilled over the rim and onto the counter. He frowned at it, annoyed. That had never been him. He wiped it up and went to check on his bird, Sunny.

  The parakeet’s bright feathers stood out against the gray day, a small defiance of color. Ryoichiro smiled despite himself.

  “Enjoy your lunch, Sun-chan,” he said softly.

  Sunny chirped back, sharp and quick, but there was something restless in it that made Ryoichiro linger a moment longer than usual.

  In the kitchen, he rummaged through the refrigerator, pulling out snacks without really looking. Halfway through, a shiver ran down his spine, sudden and deep, like someone had just walked over his grave. He straightened and looked around. The apartment was unchanged. Too unchanged.

  Behind him, Sunny fluttered violently, pecking at the cage bars, chirping in sharp bursts. Ryoichiro hurried back, murmuring reassurances, blaming the storm. Still, the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath his feet felt louder than it should have, each one a small warning he could not translate.

  That was when he remembered the laundry.

  “Oh, shit!” he said, already moving.

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  By the time he reached the back door, the rain had turned heavy. He rushed outside, the cold soaking into him instantly. Thunder rolled in the distance, low and impatient. As he gathered the wet clothes, the air seemed to hum, as though charged. The temperature dropped. His skin prickled.

  Something was wrong.

  Crrrack!

  The lightning came without warning.

  The flash was blinding, the sound like the world tearing itself open. Ryoichiro screamed and stumbled backward, heart hammering, eyes squeezed shut.

  When he opened them, the ground where he had just been standing was scorched black, smoking faintly.

  “W-what the hell?” he whispered.

  He did not linger. He bolted inside and slammed the door, leaning against it while his lungs struggled to remember how to breathe. He drank cold water straight from the bottle, hands shaking.

  When he closed the refrigerator, dread washed over him.

  The apartment was too quiet.

  Sunny’s cage stood still. No chirping. No movement.

  Ryoichiro approached slowly. The smell hit him first. Burnt feathers. At the bottom of the cage lay Sunny, small and motionless, colors dulled by death.

  “No… Sunny,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

  He lifted the bird gently, his hands trembling. The image of the park flashed through his mind. The knife. The cold. The way death had stepped around him and claimed someone else instead.

  The thought took root and refused to leave.

  He returned to the living room, turned the movie back on, and tried to sit still. The screen flickered meaninglessly. Every sound felt louder. Every shadow deeper. It felt like death was nearby, not angry, not rushed, just waiting.

  The next day at work, Ryoichiro gave it his best to conceal what had happened to him. He worked in an office building in the heart of the city, its fa?ade smooth and glassy, catching the light and throwing it back in sharp shards. Inside, people moved through the halls with quiet purpose, the murmur of voices and shuffle of papers creating a rhythm that felt familiar and safe. The cafeteria hummed with subdued energy, trays clattering, conversations floating through the air, each person wrapped in their own small world.

  Ryoichiro sat at their usual table near the window, watching the world move around him. Across from him were Kirishima and Saejima, faces he had known for years.

  Ryoichiro tried to join in the easy rhythm of their chatter, but even here, surrounded by friends and the comforting noise of lunch, he felt it… the faint pull of unease tugging at the edges of his mind. The world was moving, but something just beyond sight seemed to be waiting.

  Despite his best efforts, his co-worker and friend, Kirishima noticed first that something was going on.

  “You look awful, Ryo,” he said lightly, but his eyes lingered. “What’s going on with you lately?”

  Kirishima’s teasing always carried a laugh, but Ryoichiro knew better than to take it at face value. Beneath the jokes there was care, steady and quiet, the kind that had been there since college. Back then, when things got heavy or awkward, Kirishima would step in with a grin, a word, a laugh, just enough to make the weight lift, even if only a little.

  He had a presence that made the room feel warmer, safer. Not tall, maybe five foot eight, solid in a way that made you trust him without thinking. His face was round, alive with movement, framed with messy hair that refused to behave. His eyes were bright and sharp, always watching, always noticing, and somehow that made you feel known. He could lighten a moment with ease, but when it mattered, when the real work of friendship or loyalty came, Kirishima was there. Always there. Reliable in a way that eased the nerves without a single word.

  Ryoichiro tried to look calm, to act like nothing was wrong. He shrugged and took a slow bite of his sandwich, letting the bread and meat fill the silence for a moment. “No, nothing much,” he said, voice steady but hollow. “Just feeling a little off lately.”

  Saejima, another one of his college-friend-turned-colleague, watched quietly from across the table, his phone forgotten in his hand.

  “It’s nothing,” Ryoichiro said. The lie tasted old already.

  They did not press too hard, but their concern hung in the air. Kirishima joked. Saejima offered silence and a note left quietly on Ryoichiro’s desk later that day.

  If you need to talk, I am here.

  Over the next few days, it got worse.

  A car jumped the curb and missed him by inches before slamming into a post and killing someone else.

  A shelf fell at the office and crushed a coworker instead of him.

  Each time, Ryoichiro walked away untouched, while someone else did not.

  He stopped feeling lucky.

  He started feeling chosen.

  At night, the question gnawed at him until sleep became impossible.

  Why him.

  Why spared.

  Why surrounded by death that never quite reached out to take him.

  Finally, desperate and shaking, he called the only person he trusted to believe him... his childhood friend, Risa.

  Risa Saia had always believed in things unseen.

  And if anyone could help him understand why death kept missing him, it was her.